Manipulating the Shepherd
by Neocolai
Summary: Oneshots in which Newt is convinced or forced to take Grindelwald's side in the war. Takes place after CoG. No slash.
1. Agent

A while back there was a prompt going around by Shiranai Atsune that basically read "Newt joins Grindelwald." The notion kept bugging me because it was a tough call. I couldn't see Newt just flipping around and joining the dark side for any reason, while at the same time it would be out of character with his gentle nature to simply be evil. I finally compounded all of my musings for how Newt could be coerced or cajoled into joining "the dark side" and played them out in oneshots. The results were rather intriguing, but - as expected - dark.

**Some things to note:**

**If Newt is teamed up with Grindelwald for any reason, do not expect a happy ending. It will be VERY SAD.**

**These are unconnected oneshots. They might not have any follow up chapters.**

**Prompts are cool. I like prompts, they give me gleeful ideas and awesome oneshots.**

**These concepts are up for grabs. I don't care who uses them for their own stories, best of luck with that.**

**Oh, and Neocolai does not own Fantastic Beasts or anything related to J.K. Rowling's works (which is probably a good thing at the moment). **

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_Concept 1_

_Double Agent_

_Newt's POV_

* * *

"You have to convince him you're sincere."

To any learned wizard, the severity with which a simple phrase was emphasized was unnecessary. Any actor could play a part. Any auror could slip into a role. One simply avoided the tells and missteps, and the inevitable torture and quiet displacement could be avoided for years.

Such agents still ended up ... well, _dead_. Flamboyant and arrogant, they hovered on the outskirts, terrified of legilimency, skirting about the edges of the enemy camp until their true nature was unshrouded. Their information was shallow, their usefulness quickly spent.

Newt understood the absolution of his role.

Camouflage was not about hiding. It was about _change_.

Sometimes he was surprised no one noticed. It should have been obvious to those around him. His agitation when Queenie dabbled in his mind, so easily distracted by the merest front; a shield of pain, diverting her from the fretful thoughts that drove him to New York in search of more than a desert habitat. His equal discomfort around her sister, a valiant soul so forthright and unswayable, as fragile as a moth to be crushed if Grindelwald believed she threatened his allegiance. A subtle switch of cases, a perfect allegiance with the most forgettable of muggles, to spur a distraction that would scramble all of M.A.C.U.S.A.'s aurors and bring him unsuspected to the throne of darkness. A _revelio_ that he alone thought to manipulate, after the master of spells neglected to incapacitate an unlearned, disarmed magizoologist.

He fell into his role so easily that Theseus never asked questions when he began training Bunty to look after his creatures. If he left the case on her doorstep one day, refusing this collateral damage... well, perhaps then Theseus would finally recognize that he'd apparated in time to rescue his brother, and not Leta. Maybe it wouldn't pain him as much when he saw his little brother on the other side of the flames. He wouldn't have to hold back then.

Only Dumbledore knew the truth, for as Theseus always complained, Newt was soft clay in the professor's hands. Whatever Dumbledore needed, thus he was shaped. Newt made excuses, and Dumbledore served tea, and all the while information was exchanged. For Grindelwald. For his enemies. Sometimes Newt wasn't sure which.

He palmed blood tokens, and slipped veritaserum into Jacob's cocoa. He posed for the photographers with Theseus and Leta, straining for a smile that he could no longer feel inside. He coddled a zouwu, distracting Tina from Credence's trail, knowing deep down he'd always _wanted_ one, and somehow the mistreated creature knew what was in his heart; that he didn't actually want anyone to be hurt.

Only Theseus would never believe him on that irrevocable day when they stood apart, wands in hand. When he was close enough to slop Grindelwald's brains with a swooping evil; when a legilimens could search his mind and see nothing but loyalty to the greater good; when the war was truly and surely turned in his favor. When that terrible day came he would show his hand and cut them all down with two unforgivable words.

If he could still remember himself by then.

If he wasn't already mad with grief.


	2. Influence

_Concept 2 _

_Early Influence_

_Grindelwald's POV_

* * *

It was unusual to see a young wizard at the station so early in the spring. A student alone. Hands fiddling anxiously in his lap. Yellow scarf drooping over one shoulder. Torn school books. Scuff marks on his trunk, as though it had been soundly kicked before it was hastily packed and stowed.

Ah. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all.

A lonely outcast was making his final journey home. What a shame; bright minds were so difficult to find these days, and the Scamander name was not unknown. T'was a waste of talent to let this one go amiss.

He always had a spot of pity for strays and misfits.

"You're late for your train, young one," he said conversationally, ambling up to the bench. His approach was gentle; unhurried. The boy scarcely startled before he calmed.

"I'm … not going by train." The trembling voice, still wavering between tenor and baritone, was incapable of hiding his grief, despite his agitated swallows. Rubbing a bezoar between his palms, the boy cleared his throat and elaborated, "My brother is picking me up. He'll be here."

Such hesitancy for one so bold. Here he sat alone, conversing with a stranger in his hour of struggle, yet his doubt bled through when he spoke of his family. One should not fear his own blood and kin.

"He's running late," he commented sympathetically. "The train left the station two hours ago."

"Yes, well… he's busy sometimes," the boy mumbled. "He'll be here soon."

"Are you going to tell him?" A grievous glance at the scuffed trunk, and the school books which had been kicked in the spine. Flushing, the boy ducked his head.

"Mum already floo'd him. He said he was coming." Gasping sharply, the boy clasped a hand in his rusty curls, blinking against bitter disappointment. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. I didn't… _I didn't do it,_" he whispered. Despondency dredged the hopes of a once vibrant future.

A future he must still have, regardless of the cost. "Did you know that there are other ways to become a wizard," he offered softly.

Shaking his head doggedly, the boy scrubbed a torn sleeve over his eyes. "I can't. They've expelled me. I can't practice magic anymore."

"Is that so?" Lingering on the question, he dropped his voice. "Then why would they leave you your wand?"

Startled, the boy looked down at the smooth reed resting on his trunk. Possibility warred with common sense. He swallowed. "But how?"

The sly one looked at the clock. Two hours and ten minutes past the train's departure. Ample time for someone to pick up their stray. Little ones shouldn't be left at the station alone for so long.

"I know a teacher," he coaxed. "You could become a great wizard under his tutelage."

Like a whipped puppy or an abandoned lamb, the boy's eyes lanced at the first offered hand. He hesitated, glancing at the clock. "I can't," he said grimly. "Theseus will be here soon."

"Of course he will."

Though sunset would arrive before the boy realized his mother's letter had been misdirected, and dear brother wasn't even aware that he had fretted at the station for seven hours, waiting for someone who would not come. By the time the boy's father apparated to the station, flustered by the miscommunication and mortified that his son should be sent home in disgrace, the frail threads tying young Scamander to Hogwarts and his favorite tutor were nearly snapped. The look sent over his shoulder was that of a survivor sensing prosperity just around the corner. An open hand of friendship. A chance to make things right.

As the lamps were lit around the darkening station, the patient one strolled away on his own, knowing that one day soon the boy would follow the address he'd slipped into his hand. This undeserving outcast would remember the first sympathetic words spoken to him at an empty station, and even Dumbledore wouldn't be able to sway his mind. One day, years from now, with the proper training and promise of a better future, he would rattle the very foundations of the wizarding world.

Because no one would expect a lamb to grow into a tiger. Hogwarts had spewed out the phoenix that would engulf it in flame.


	3. Blackmail

_Concept 3_

_Unwilling Accomplice_

_Abernathy's POV_

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Threats of punishment couldn't keep him in line. There were too many outbursts. Too many slip-ups. Silent shows of rebellion; of eye-communication with the war hero; of wooing Credence away from the tangled path. After the third time their plans were bungled and a stray spell took out Campbell permanently, Abernathy proposed an alternative solution. One menial side-trip to New York, to procure an unlikely quarry.

They didn't have much trouble after that.

He still fought them. Mentally, forcing Queenie out of his mind one moment, crushing her with despair and agony the instant she relaxed her guard. Instinctively, balking at every hand on his shoulder or whisper in his ear. Subtly, incapacitating where there should have been a kill, or bringing down an entire building that buried himself while his quarry escaped, claiming innocence with such adamant fervency that Grindelwald stayed his hand, while Abernathy screamed that he was playing them all along. Physically, when he could get away with it, shoving at the hands that forced him to kneel, ducking away from the dark lord's condescending gaze, clinging to the bars surrounding his muggle friend until they bruised his fingers and dragged him away from the cellar. Silently, projecting every flicker of hatred, fear, and desperation with his sad, weary eyes, until Nagini proclaimed that she could not stand to be in the same room with a trapped animal.

They curbed his outbursts wherever possible, learning how far to push before he was useless. Hunger kept him moving. Sleep was granted in short bursts when necessary, to sharpen his mind. If Grindelwald was feeling generous, he was allowed to see his friend. There was a case - not quite as effective, for the real one had somehow been hidden away before they captured him - but Grindelwald knew how to mimic galleries and he had his own collection of mistreated, bedraggled monstrosities tucked inside a black valice, which the magizoologist was allowed to tend, knowing that if he messed up badly he would find one of them crumpled inside, bloody and snarling in its death throes.

Yet with all these safeguards, Abernathy knew it was only a matter of time. While the war hero lived, there was a chance. Only one wizard could convince the prisoner to risk all and give himself up, to be obliviated or tortured or locked away in Azkaban, just so that he would not have to hurt the one he loved dearest. While this guardian survived, all might be for naught.

Grindelwald dreamed of a warrior who would kill kith and kin for the sake of a friend.

Abernathy knew better.


	4. Amnesia

_Concept 4_

_Torture/Memory Loss_

_Theseus' POV_

* * *

"Newt!" The word was torn from his throat, as violent and desperate as the rain whipping around him. He couldn't believe that those eyes - those empty, hollow eyes - were the same which had haunted his dreams the last four months of searching. "Newt, put down your wand - let me come over to you."

Two hands braced around that familiar wood. Scrawny, scarred wrists nearly disappeared into the ornate sleeves of a black coat. The scarecrow of a wizard shook his head. "I don't… I don't know you."

Terror crippled his heart, and for a moment Theseus could remember neither jinx nor countercurse. An enemy would have taken advantage of his weakness, but this was Newt. He did not strike.

"Newt, what have they done to you?" His voice cracked as he truly looked at his brother. At that which he did not wish to know. Burn scars twisted up the gawky neck. Curled shoulders. Knobby fingers twisted with old breaks. Back injury - his legs were unsteady. One shoe was a size too small, as though it no longer required the same length and support of a fully-formed foot.

"Newt..." Grief broke his voice, manifesting in hot rain that washed down his cheeks. "What have they…What've they done?" My brother, my brother, forgive me! Where was I when they hurt you? Who caused you such pain? "Newt, please! Let me come over to you! Let me help you!"

Cornered fear overrode familial instinct. Gritting his teeth, Newt growled out, "Expulso!"

"Protego!" Anguish did not overrule survival, but relief quaked through his wand hand when the protection spell didn't rebound the curse into his brother. He couldn't hurt him. Not Newt. Not like this.

Shivering in the cold rain, Newt retaliated, "Confringo!"

Dangerous spells, wielded without hesitation by one who hated bloodshed. Where is your soul, Newt? What have they taken from you?

"Confundo!" He regretted the spell instantly, for it was almost cruel, addling his brother when his mind was already torn apart.

The slip of black narrowly avoided the spell, gangly legs tripping him up, no longer strong enough to bear him in battle. Theseus didn't hesitate a second time.

"Expelliarmus!"

Yelping, Newt fumbled for the wand, his eyes bulging in fear when it landed neatly in his brother's hand. It used to be a game between them; a demonstration to prepare a child for his future classes. Now desolation cut through Theseus' chest as he flung himself at the retreating figure, binding him against his heart even while ragged nails tore at his face and teeth bore into his shoulder. Fearful sobs heaved against him. Clumsy legs kicked at his shins.

"It's all right. I've got you. I'm here, Newt." Grunting, he held tighter, pressing his cheek against that matted thatch of curls. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Whatever they've done, I'll fix it. I won't let you go again."

Terror bled into that broken voice, like a wild thing finally giving up. A hurt animal trapped by yet another hunter. "Don't hurt me. Please... please don't… don't… don't let me go..."

He clenched his teeth, clutching the shuddering body, praying for the right words. Words to salvage a devastated mind. Words to heal a shattered soul. Words to bring his brother back from the edges of his torment.

He stood in bitter silence. Cold rain mocked his tears as the stain of his brother's blood spread across his coat.

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**So that sounded like a tragedy. It's not, Newt isn't dead, but … yeah. No happy endings, just the implication of a looooong recovery up ahead and lots of sad days for Theseus.** :(


	5. Imperio

_Concept 5_

_Imperio Curse_

_Jacob's POV_

* * *

He'd seen dead eyes in some of the guys from his outfit. A father who'd unfolded the letter telling him the house had caught fire in his absence, wife and little ones inside. Boys who stumbled over their first corpse. Fog-blinded men, shooting at their own. Doctors who couldn't save those same soldiers from giving on the table because there didn't seem to be any reason left to endure the pain.

He'd seen those same eyes in New York. Men without hope, toiling day in and day out for someone to open up a can of beans. Fathers sitting on the edge of the street, five pennies short to feed their young'uns, no one offering a job. Kids huddled together in the paper stands, blue with cold, stiff fingers cracked under swathes of rusty stains, voices trembling as they invented headlines to pay for one more day free of the orphan's house. Women hovering in open door frames, shivering in their scant dresses, full lips and empty eyes bequeathed to a callous stranger, their gentle hearts dulled one night after another.

These eyes… they didn't show anything. No fear or pain. No friendships, no family. Nothing left to lose.

"Newt, hey… come on. It's - it's me," Jacob coaxed. "Don'tcha remember? New York and the thunderbird, and we were gonna look for Queenie, and….?"

No amount of words ever fixed those guys before, and he knew it wouldn't do anything now. There was barely a flicker of comprehension; of uncertainty; before the glaze settled and the wand lowered to his heart.

"You're…. You're really gonna kill me?" He wanted to laugh incredulously, but fear crippled his voice. This wasn't how he imagined going out. Dying from a wizard attack seemed more liable after Grindelwald's speech, but Newt? He couldn't possibly - no wizard could go that bad, right?

"Okay… so… okay…." Backing up a pace, he held up his hands. "I get it. There's some fancy spell stuff going on here. You can't stop yourself. Don't I get … I dunno, some last rights or something? Last meal? Can I talk to someone? It's Grindelwald, right? Think he'll let me talk to Queenie before I bite the bullet?"

He didn't know if it was the mention of Queenie, or just the calmness in his voice, but the wizard's hands shook. Conflict rippled in hazel eyes.

"D-Don't…." Blinking rapidly, Newt flicked his head like a bug was crawling in his ear. The glaze resettled.

"Look, it's fine. I get it." Just keep talking. "I've had a long haul. Lived longer than most of my buddies, in fact. Soldiers just don't make it this far, you know? I mean, I had the bakery, and I lived through M.A.C.U.S.A. - didn't even lose my memories for all that. London? Paris? I've fulfilled my dreams, at least. Maybe I'll never… never see her again, but … it's okay, Newt. You don't have to regret this."

"Jacob…." Breathing fast and sharp between his teeth, the wizard shook his head again. "Stop…."

"Just look after her for me, okay?" The edge of the table blocked his casual retreat. Leaning back with a calmness he didn't know he had, he looked Newt straight in the eye. "If Grindelwald's got you, then you know where she is. Look after her, Newt. I'm telling ya, I'll come back from my grave if you don't have her out of there by the end of the month. Tell her I don't care what she's done. I'll still love her - even..." he huffed, appreciating the irony of a cliche. "Even to my dying day."

"S-Stop. You're not… don't…._Ghhhh!"_ Howling between his teeth, Newt whipped around, driving his wand into the china cabinet. Shards of glass gouged his hands, slicing down his wrists before he fell against the ornate frame, heaves wracking his body. Rounded wood slid from his limp fingers, clattering to the floor.

"Pick it up." Finally the thin voice lilted through, jaded with pain and trepidation. "Jacob, please. Don't let me…."

"I've gotcha." Approaching softly, wary that any whipped colt might bolt in fright, he crouched and picked up the tainted wand, tucking it into his back pocket. "Newt, c'mon. Your hands are bleeding."

Barking a hoarse laugh, the Brit leaned against the glass, his eyes clear and alive, and damp with relief. "You muggles; always focusing on the obvious."

"Yeah, well…. That was my grandmother's best china." Gingerly helping Newt untangle himself, Jacob tugged him over to a chair and prodded him to sit, listening to the slow, laborious tale of a raid gone wrong while he sorted tweezers and bandages and contemplated calling in Ol' Bill for a few proper stitches. Of course, there were spells to fix this sort of thing - Newt had already tended many play scratches from the zouwu - but the wand stayed in his back pocket, and the fear slowly faded from the wizard's eyes.

"I wouldn't have… you know I couldn't have done it," Newt said raggedly, with the distinct edge of a man trying to convince himself.

"Yeah, I know," Jacob said, sealing the conversation with the casual dismissal it deserved. "I know."

Because if any wizard could convince Newt to sacrifice the people he loved, the whole world would burn.

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**That's it so far, until some other ideas pop up. ... Y'all brought tissues from the start, right?**


End file.
